Dead Men Make Bad Allies
by Ashabagawa
Summary: Fifty-eight years after his first mission for MI6, Alex Rider finds himself involved in the tricky affairs of the intelligence service once more. When an old comrade is murdered by a brutal terrorist group, Rider vows to seek revenge one final time...
1. Time Stands Still For No One

**Chapter One – Time Stands Still For No One**

Alan Blunt had no flowers laid over his gravestone.

There had only been two people at the funeral, excluding the clergymen. A colleague and a young boy. The colleague was now dead and the boy was now a man. Time stands still for no one, not even Alan Blunt.

Nor did time stand still for Alex Rider. Cold and miserable didn't seem to do justice to the emotions flooding through his body and the long coat and leather gloves he was wearing seemed pathetic battling against the cold, wintery atmosphere.

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..." The words, embellished with the steamy breath of the speakers, floated into the cool mist, disappearing almost as soon as they had come. Alex joined in, more out of politeness than faith and wriggled his fingers inside his gloves, trying to keep the circulation going.

The coffin was slowly lowered into the snowy ground before the being completely obscured by a mound of snow covered earth.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. On Earth as it is in heaven...."

The coffin carrying the body of Ms Tulip Jones settled down upon the bottom of the large, rectangular hole and was slowly obscured as soil was shovelled on top of it.

"...Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us...."

She had stayed on at MI6 until the very end. After Blunt's death she had taken over as Director and had continued in that role until her fatal heart attack. The doctors had said she had brought her own death along, that she was piling too much stress upon herself and that she would have had a few more years if she'd taken it easy, yet Alex knew she wouldn't have had it any other way.

"...For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory...."

After all, that was what it all boiled down to wasn't it? Choice. Jones' decision had led her to killing herself over her job. She'd had the option. Alex had never really had that choice. Fifty-eight years ago, sitting in Blunt's office, he had never had the option to leave and forget it all. He had never had the chance to walk out, and maybe that was why, at seventy-two, he was standing in the middle of a cemetery, mourning the loss of someone he had never really cared about anyway.

"...Amen."

There was a moment's silence as everyone stared at the grave, supposedly grieving. Alex shook himself out of his reverie, realising he was going to have to make conversation with people in less than a minute. There was another pause before everyone started to move, gathering themselves together in little groups and talking in a respectful monotone. Only Alex remained still, staring at the grave of the woman he wasn't sure he liked or loathed.

"Alex." A voice called to him, cutting through his thoughts. He turned to find Bruno Markenbury smiling at him. Bruno was a friend and colleague. They'd worked together on various occasions after Bruno was drafted from a branch of the SAS. Now, both in retirement, they'd lost touch, only communicating through Christmas cards, or indeed funerals.

They shook hands. Although now nearing his eighties, Bruno's handshake was still strong and fierce and Alex smiled broadly, glad of a friend in the dismal wintry afternoon.

"What do you think then?" Bruno asked, gesturing towards the newly dug grave. "The old bag finally popped her clogs. About bloody time." Bruno had never really liked Ms Jones.

"You can't talk." Alex replied, averting to the sort of serviceman banter they were both so skilled at. "Ever thought about Botox, you old sod." Bruno rolled his eyes.

"Everyone's going over to the Red Lion for drinks." Bruno gestured over to the group of mourners behind him. "Coming?"

"Alright." They joined the group and slowly made their way to the pub, scarves and coats pulled closer to their bodies to prevent the cold from finding a route in between their layers.

The pub was fairly quiet and the funeral party soon found themselves a group of tables near the entrance. Alex and Bruno moved up to the bar to order their drinks, opting for a little more privacy.

"So, how's life?" Alex asked.

"Fine really." Bruno said, sipping his whiskey thoughtfully. "Gemma's gone to university now and Simone keeps trying to out-do me with the fees." Simone, Bruno's ex wife was cause for a fair bit of the irritation in his retirement. "She does my head in..." Alex smiled privately into his beer.

Having never been married, Alex found it hard to empathise with Bruno's argument. He had children and now plenty of grandchildren to visit him in his old age. Alex however, had no one.

"What about you? Still got that dog?" Well, almost no one. Alex's Alsatian, Sam was his antidote to all the stress that seemed to float him way.

"Yeah." They were silent for a few moments, sipping their drinks thoughtfully. When Bruno spoke again, something seemed to have changed.

"Been in the office lately?" He asked, his tone suddenly serious. Alex shook his head. Occasionally ex servicemen such as himself or Bruno were called upon to help out with a mission, normally just cover as a parent or grandparent of an agent, nothing too serious.

Bruno glanced towards an empty booth and Alex took the hint. He grabbed his drink and casually strolled over to it, Bruno following.

"What is it?" Alex asked. Bruno fiddled with a button on his jacket before continuing.

"I'm not sure exactly." He said, looking up. "There's something wrong....and I think Jones knew. That was why she didn't want to leave." Alex studied him over the top of his beer.

"What do you mean?"

"You know the new bloke, Martin Haynes?" Haynes was Ms Jones' predecessor. He'd been at the funeral although hadn't come along to the pub afterwards. Probably had to go and save the world or something.

"Yes."

"There's something going on..." Bruno paused. "The missions just seem to be getting dirtier and dirtier....we're dealing with known terrorists...letting them off the hook because they're helping us out. MI6 is profit run now, things are happening....dangerous things...." He shook his head. Alex frowned.

"How do you know all this stuff?" He asked. Slowly, Bruno looked up at him.

"My last job for the company was in October. I was working with Jamie Niccols." He explained. "It was just a cover job, you know...smile for the camera...pretend to be a batty old man obsessed with jammy dodgers..." There was something bitter in his tone and Alex privately wondered if he felt humiliated by the tasks he was offered, if he missed the glory days of being the main man in the mission. "It was simple really...get in, find the terrorist at the dinner party, get out...but of course it wasn't that simple." He paused and took another swig of whiskey. "Anyway, we get in, I give Niccols his cover, he finds the terrorist and contacts Haynes. Only Haynes decides that he wants to talk to him. We stay in cover and Haynes flies over and talks to Niccols." Another swig. "Turns out Haynes want to do a deal. The terrorists hand us their weapons and their source and we give them freedom..." Bruno looked positively revolted. "...We're doing deals with these people, Alex." He said, shaking his head. "When will it end? Soon we'll be getting all comfy over hot chocolate...."

Alex had to admit, Bruno had a point. This certainly was dodgy, yet they were hardly in a position to have a say about it.

"I dunno, Bruno...." Alex said. "I would leap into action but I'm afraid my arthritis will stop me." Bruno snorted.

"Life's a bitch..." He said. "Get over it."


	2. A Nice Night For A Swim

**Chapter Two – A Nice Night For A Swim**

Alex took the long way home.

He walked beneath the bare trees, feet crunching on the thin layer of grimy snow. Snow that couldn't even be bothered to stay white and now, in the gleam of the streetlights, seemed orange. The pavement showed through from underneath, patches of discarded chewing gum creating ridges underneath his shoes.

Alex didn't notice any of this however. He was busy turning over the conversation he had had with Bruno in his mind. He'd been worried, scared even. After a few more whiskies he'd tried to pass it off for paranoia, although Alex knew otherwise. Out on the field, Bruno had always been the bloke you looked to in an emergency. Calm and collected, Bruno could handle anything.

But could he handle this?

Bruno could pass it off as anything he liked and it wouldn't fool Alex. Not for a second. Something was wrong and, retired or not, Alex was going to get to the bottom of it.

He turned down a quiet side street and froze.

Down the street, in front of one of the houses, was a gaggle of hooded young men all huddled around a smaller, un-hooded figure. It was now dark, and the group were all huddled inside the blind spot in between the streetlights, orange beams occasionally grazing the edge of a jacket or sleeve when one of them moved too suddenly. The point was, Alex realised, that no one would see them unless they were actually looking for them.

The largest of the hooded men grabbed the small figure and pushed them up against the railings. The figure flailed and writhed in panic, hands scrabbling against the cold metal.

"Oi." Alex's voice carried down the street perfectly, as if having been shouted down a megaphone. The men looked down the street towards him, although the one holding the figure up against the fence didn't let go. Alex strode over.

"What's going on?" He asked, trying to make his voice sound imposing.

"Nothing you should be worried about, old man." The voice came from one of the taller figures. It seemed upper-class somehow, as if from Oxford or Cambridge.

"On the contrary, my friend." Alex replied, applying a little sarcasm. "I am worried." At this, a different hoodie stepped forward aggressively.

"Back off." He barked. Alex didn't flinch.

"No." He replied. "Let him go." He nodded over towards the figure held up against the railings.

Now, closer up, Alex could make out the figure a little bit better. He was a young man, possibly eighteen or nineteen with thick, dark hair, although in the streetlight it was hard to make out the colour. Other distinguishing features included large, dark eyes and a rather long nose. He wasn't looking Alex in the eye.

The hoodie laughed.

"Back off." He said, adding a little more force to his order.

"No." Alex repeated, unfalteringly. It was then that the hooded man tried to shove him backwards.

He didn't get very far.

Anticipating a physical attack, as the hoodie lurched forwards, Alex placed the palm of his hand against the man's chest shoving him backwards into the man behind him. The man fell backwards, landing on the crisp, snowy pavement.

Another man lurched forwards and Alex grabbed his left hand and twisted it behind his back, shoving him face first into the railings, holding him still with his arm.

"Anyone else see a problem with letting this young man go?" Alex said, his voice icy and cold. No one spoke. "Leave." He ordered. The man on the floor picked himself up and after a moment, gestured for the others to follow him. They sloped off down the street.

Alex turned back to the boy.

He was still up against the railings, cowering slightly, staring after the men.

"Are you alright?" Alex asked, surveying him through squinted eyes. The boy nodded quickly, still not meeting Alex's gaze.

"Who were they?" Alex asked.

"No one." The reply was quick, rehearsed and Alex frowned.

"I see..." He said, looking back down the street. "Do you need a ride home?"

"No." The boy said, stepping away from the railings, still staring fixedly at the pavement. "Thank you." With that, he hurriedly walked away from Alex, head bent low into the collar of his coat.

Alex watched him go, a little annoyed. After all, he had just saved that ungrateful little sod's arse from those thugs. The least he could have done was look him in the eye. He shook his head and crossed the road.

Forty-three Werner Street was a large semi detached house, overlooking the sports field. Large, gleaming bay windows adorned the front face and a large, neatly mown lawn rolled down to meet the street . Alex couldn't help feeling proud of his home. He'd travelled all over the world, but never before had he taken such pride in a property.

He unlocked the front door and was immediately leapt upon by a huge, furry beast. It was Sam, the Alsatian, completely fed up with sitting alone in front of the television and exceptionally glad to see his master.

After prising the huge dog off his chest, Alex managed to make his way to the living room, where he settled down in one of the armchairs and started to watch the news. However, his mind was still to unsettled to focus on the glossy, female newsreader.

He'd started the day with the funeral of quite possibly the most influential woman in Britain. She'd been ninety eight when she'd died, Bruno had a point about her clinging desperately onto her job...but did that necessarily mean that the rest of Bruno's accusations were justified? After all, there were plenty of security measures in place at MI6; Alex found it hard to believe that none of them would object to such missions...

Then of course, he had rescued that boy from those thugs...to receive almost absolutely nothing in return. Even though petty and slightly snobbish, Alex couldn't help feeling a little irritated by this. He wasn't exactly expecting a fanfare but a solemn thank you and maybe a name to go by would have been appreciated. After all, those thugs could find that boy again, surely?

Alex's brain continued on similar thought tracks for the next few days. Although life continued along the same pattern, he couldn't help feeling disturbed by what Bruno had told him and annoyed at the boy's dismissal.

Cutting up some carrots for dinner on the following Sunday, Alex was still turning over the two situations in his mind. The boy could still be in danger now, surely? After all, Alex had only got rid of the bullies once and who knows how many other times they could have hurt him. The spy within him wondered exactly what it was that the thugs had wanted. Money? Drugs? The boy hadn't looked like a dealer....it was times like these that Alex had to remind himself that it wasn't any of his business and that he shouldn't go poking his nose into other people's affairs. After all, what could he do about it? He was a retired seventy two year old with an obese dog and partiality to treacle tart.

From the kitchen, he heard the sound of post being pushed through the door and after throwing Sam a bit of raw carrot, he shuffled along the hall to collect it. That was odd, post wasn't delivered on Sundays.

It was a postcard from the Docklands Hilton Hotel, however, it was the back that interested Alex.

_Tonight. Hungerford Bridge. Midnight. Come Alone._

_I need to tell you more. _

_B._

Bruno. There could be no other explanation. Unless of course it was someone pretending to be Bruno. Either way, Alex had never been one to play it safe.

The taxi came at 11:30pm. The driver seemed grumpy and tired, having obviously been on the job for some hours.

"Hungerford Bridge, please." Alex said, settling down on the back seat.

"You catching a train?" The driver asked, pulling away from the kerb. Hungerford Bridge was a railway line, no accessible by foot. The choice of meeting place had confused Alex too.

"No..." Alex said. "I'm meeting...a friend."

"Oh." The driver was quiet for the rest of the journey, scowling out into the darkness.

Alex questioned his decision to venture out. All he had received was a postcard, he could be walking outside into fire fight for all he knew. He had come out alone, but he wasn't unprotected.

Wrapped around his chest was a full torso piece of body armour, covered with a dark shirt and pullover. In a small holster to the side of his chest was a Browning 9x19mm Hi-Power handgun and a Swiss army knife was strapped to the inside of his left leg. Fifty years in the business had abolished any naivety he may have had when he was younger.

If it wasn't Bruno that had sent the message, a man might die tonight and he was going to take every precaution to make sure it wasn't him.

"Stop here please." The driver pulled up to the side of the road and Alex paid him. Alex climbed out into the cool, wintry night and watched the taxi drive away.

He'd asked the driver to stop quite a way away from the bridge. If things were going to get nasty, he wanted as few people involved as possible, not to mention he didn't want to be a complete sitting duck.

The pathway he was now on ran along the side of the Thames, the black water rippled dangerously on the other side of the metal railing. The tide was out and a small strip of grey sand ran in front of the lapping waves. Waterloo Bridge stretched out across the water behind him, casting a dark, haunting shadow. The other end was blocked off to pedestrians, wooden boarding advertising the exciting new 'Opal Theatre' currently under construction. Across the water, Alex could just make out the grey, ghostly silhouette of Cleopatra's needle.

Alex turned and there was Hungerford Bridge.

The huge, grey expanse of metal and concrete stretched over the dark, rippling water, huge metal spike scraping the dark, cloudy sky. The shadow of the bridge shielded the underside, cloaked in blackness.

In between the two bridges was a ferry terminal and on the other side, two grey buildings: a prime location for snipers. The pathway was bathed in a silvery glow. If he ventured out onto the pathway, he was an easy target.

But then, if it really was just Bruce, there was nothing to worry about. He glanced over his shoulder and that was when he saw him.

A black figure had pulled itself back into the shadows of Waterloo Bridge, dodging the puddles of moonlight. Alex threw himself to the floor.

Bullets tore through the air where his head had been less than a second ago. In the sudden chaos, Alex crawled along the floor and threw himself over the edge of the walkway, landing on the cool, slightly wet sand beneath.

Ok, so it wasn't Bruno.

Either that or Bruno had transformed into a murdering psychopath. Alex straightened up and found the handgun.

Silence.

Footsteps.

Alex peered over the wall. A bullet missed his ear. Snipers. Probably positioned on the roof of one of the buildings. While he crouched, they couldn't reach him. He shuffled along the wall.

He couldn't run forever. Waterloo Bridge cut out into the middle of the river and there was no gap for Alex to creep through without swimming. Swimming against the current, snipers and breathtaking temperature may have once been an option worth considering, but now at seventy-two Alex didn't think it advisable. Then again, neither was leaping back over the wall into the midst of a fire fight.

Another torrent of bullets cascaded over the wall. Alex flinched and looked back over at the water. How deep would it be? He couldn't believe he was even considering this...

He glanced up at the wall. Before long, the snipers would move closer, rendering his hiding place useless. He had to move now, whatever his options.

He took off his shoes.

As soon as he moved an inch away from the wall, the snipers would have a clear target. He would have to move fast. He flicked the safety catch off his handgun and fired a few haphazard shots over the wall. He then darted forward and threw himself into the icy water.

Luckily, the water got very deep, very quickly and so Alex found himself completely and utterly submerged. This was a blessing from one point of view and a curse from another. All thoughts and rational feelings were completely smashed out of his brain as freezing water submerged his entire body. Senses paralysed, Alex found himself screaming internally as the iciness pierced every single inch of flesh.

It was the bullet that jerked him back into reality.

It nearly hit him in the leg. Panic flared inside his head, pulling his non-functioning brain to the current situation. Now was not the time to go berserk over a cool bath, now was the time to move your arse.

Staying submerged, Alex started to pull the murky water towards him, pulling himself through. Bullet splattered around him, each one more and more wildly targeted. The darkness of the water was to Alex's advantage: the snipers wouldn't be able to see him.

His body had begun to tire, his seventy two years starting to make themselves known. His strokes shortened and his lungs begged for air. Not yet, he thought.

He made it to the pillar of the bridge, now half way. His lungs were near breaking point. Recklessly, he came up for air, although the sudden crack of a bullet made him quickly swallow a mouthful of dirty river water. Tired, lungs aching and desperately needing to cough, Alex felt defeated. Swimming had been a stupid idea and now he was going to die. Alone.

No. A small part of his mind suddenly spoke up. No, I'm not going to die. Not now.

Defiantly, he pulled another stroke towards the wall on the opposite side of the bridge and found himself marooned. Sand. He put his hand down and felt it sink into the greyish riverbank.

Thank Christ.

He pulled himself up and ran the last couple of metres, bare feet on sand, exhaustion making every step a little shorter than the last. If he didn't move quickly, the assassins would find another way around the boarding cutting off the bridge. He had to move fast.

Running soon wasn't an option. After sprinting down a side alley and a fairly long way down the main road, he collapsed onto a bench, breath ragged. No further.

Tonight had been weird. Someone somewhere obviously wanted to kill him. Why? It must have had something to do with Bruno, otherwise why use his name? But then, if someone just wanted him out of the way, why not come to his house and do it? It would save everyone a lot of bother...

A car rounded the corner. It was dark with the windows blacked out: features that immediately set alarm bells ringing. Run. Wearily, Alex picked himself up from the bench before realising there wasn't much point moving as the car was already halfway towards him. It pulled up and the passenger window rolled down.

Haynes.

"Rider?" He asked. "Get in."


	3. Bullets Have No Antidote

**Sorry it took so long for this chapter to be posted. I've been away and I found this chapter really hard to write. I hope it's ok and that you enjoy it. **

**Chapter Three – Bullets Have No Antidote**

Alex fell down onto the back seat, dripping water onto the leather.

"You're wet." Haynes said, seeming to have only just noticed.

"I went for a swim." Alex replied. He wasn't sure whether he trusted Haynes yet, so informing his that he'd been forced to jump into the freezing depths of the Thames to escape rapid rifle fire didn't seem like a fantastic idea.

"Why are you wet?" Haynes asked, prompting a casual shrug from Alex. Haynes seemed to have an internal struggle for a moment. Alex wondered what he'd been told about him. When Alex had left the company, Haynes had only been Director of National Security and hadn't had any real life encounters to judge Alex on. He wondered what kind of stories Haynes had been told.

"I have news for you, Rider and you're not going to like it." Haynes said, folding his hands neatly on his lap as the car sped away from the kerb.

"Oh yes?"

"Yes." Haynes looked at him for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to divulge a secret. "Bruno Markenbury is dead."

The world seemed to stop.

"What?" Alex asked, quietly.

"Bruno Markenbury." Haynes said, examining his fingernails. "He's dead. Shot, actually."

"Why?" Alex's voice was blank, emotionless.

"He was working for us. The mission went wrong. Sacrifices had to be made..." Haynes looked up. "You understand, I'm sure..."

"Who killed him?" Alex cut Haynes off.

"That isn't your concern, Rider." He surveyed him through his calculating gaze. "We don't want you doing anything rash now, do we?" He frowned. Alex stared out of the blacked out window, out into the darkness.

"Of course not." He turned back to Haynes. "Why did you tell me?"

"The police will inform you sometime in the near future...we wanted you to be ready."

"Why not wait so the police get a natural reaction?"

"We wanted the natural reaction to be to our liking."

"I see..." Alex filed this information away in his slightly numb brain. "And what would that be?" Haynes looked at him again, as if trying to work out a particularly vexing puzzle.

"The usual. An old, retired, sweet old soul distraught over the loss of his friend. Think you can handle that?"

"Yes." The car stopped. Alex looked out into the blackness and could just make out the hazy outline of his house. Haynes opened the door and Alex climbed out, silently. To his surprise, Haynes followed him, escorting him up the garden path. When they reached the front door, Haynes turned, facing Alex.

"I know you've never always seen eye to eye with the organisation, Rider." He said, examining his shiny Rolex watch. "But co-operation on this would help a great deal..." He paused, as if wondering what to say next. Finally, he looked up, fixing his grey eyes on Alex's brown ones. "I have reason to believe Markenbury contacted you shortly before his death..." He said bluntly, his voice carrying out into the misty night air. "Whatever was said, whatever was discussed, is to remain firmly behind closed doors." He paused. "Mrs Jones always thought you were then best, gave you a little more leeway than perhaps necessary and I admit...you always were a good agent..." He leant forward. "You're not an agent any more, Rider. Leave the case alone..." He looked at Alex for a moment more, before turning and marching back towards the car.

It sped off into the night and Alex watched it go, frowning.

Haynes was anxious. Scared, even. Something was wrong and Haynes hadn't the power or the experience to make it right again. This something Bruno knew about, and Haynes didn't want it getting out. This gave Haynes a perfect motive for murdering him.

With a feeling of slight sadness, Alex realised he could no longer trust the company he had spent his entire life working for. He had no friends and certainly a few enemies, judging by the night's events.

He turned and unlocked the door, jostling with a bouncy Sam. He took a hot shower, mulling the situation over in the hot water.

Someone wanted to kill him. Why? No idea. They'd used Bruce's name hadn't they? They had to be tied with the conversation he'd had with Bruno at the funeral, although how had they known that he and Bruce had talked? Haynes hadn't stayed for the drinks and he couldn't remember any of the guests being particularly incriminating. Nevertheless, he turned the funeral party over in his mind, examining any gap or flaw there may have been in the proceedings. Still nothing came to mind.

Tired, confused and seriously frustrated, Alex went to bed, although he didn't sleep for several hours, the hum of assassins and death still beating a frantic rhythm in his mind.

*

"I'm so very sorry, Mr Rider."

Alex wiped a hand across his face and his mug of tea shook in his hand. DCI Carter and DI Everson exchanged sorrowful looks. Carter flicked her blonde fringe out of her eyes while Everson ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. When Alex had recovered, Everson stepped forward.

"You and Bruce were close?"

"Yes..." Alex looked up, tears still streaming from his red eyes. "We were in the Army together. 25 years..." He trailed off, petting Sam behind the ears absently. Carter leaned forward.

"We want to find who did this, Alex." She said, her serious face suddenly kindly and mothering. "Do you have any idea who might have disliked Bruce."

"No." Alex sobbed. Through his tears, he could make out Carter and Everson exchange a look. "Why? Do you know who did it?" Neither answered. Instead, Carter reached into her handbag and pulled out a photograph.

"Do you know who this is?" She asked. Alex pulled on his glasses and peered down at the picture.

It was of a young man. It was a school photograph and not a particularly good one, as the subject seemed slightly dazed. He was stocky, with a strong jaw, slightly large, possibly broken nose and shaggy blonde hair pushed away from his face.

"No." Alex frowned, handing the photograph back. Carter narrowed her eyes at him.

"His name is Dylan Chambers. Did Bruno mention him?"

"No." Alex shook his head. "He never mentioned him." Carter studied him for a moment before taking back the picture.

"Thank you for your time. If you...remember anything, you know where to find us." She left and after giving Alex a brief smile, Everson followed her.

The tears dried up fast.

Alex moved to his bedroom and pulled off the knitted sweater he was wearing, replacing it with a black pullover. He put on his long black coat, found his gloves and pulled open the wardrobe.

Alex had two wardrobes. One contained clothes and shoes, the other contained a SG 55 assault rifle and two fully automatic Steyr M1912, machine pistols. Alex reached into the second wardrobe and pulled out one of the pistols. He loaded it and attached it to a holster, securing it to his chest. He put the Browning 9x19mm Hi-Power handgun that he'd used the other night back into the wardrobe.

All set for a day in the office.


	4. Wise Men

**Sorry this took so long to be put up. Wading through piles of GCSE coursework isn't as easy as it sounds and school itself has resumed, meaning I have less time to write. Also, my laptop decided to delete the original version of this chapter, which meant I had to write it all out again. Nevertheless, I've managed to plough through the next couple of chapters and I hope you enjoy this one.**

**Chapter Four – Wise Men**

Alex hadn't been in the bank since his retirement eight years ago. He'd worked for the service from time to time but it had always been from home. Now, he looked up at the seventeen storey skyscraper, now slightly dated looking compared to the newer banks in town, reminiscing for a moment of all the times he had stood in the exact same spot. The flagpole high above fluttered half heartedly in the gritty, polluted London breeze and Alex distinctly remembered jumping from a windowsill onto the flimsy, metal pole holding up the sheet of fabric. That had been fifty-eight years ago, when he had been a different person...

The main hall of the bank had not changed. Footsteps echoed on the marble floor and cashiers marched to and fro; a line of customers had yet to be served. Smiling grimly, Alex crossed to a door marked 'ADMINISTRATOR'S OFFICE', dug around in his pocket for his swipe card and stepped into the cool, gleaming atmosphere of the hallway beyond.

The corridor was blank and boring, yet somehow sinister, radiating off an unfriendly glare from the neon lights. The corridors crossed and a number of junctions would have completely confused anyone who did not know exactly where they were headed.

Alex did.

A lift played a falsely cheerful tune and it carried him from the ground floor up to the seventeenth, humming dolefully in his ear. He had no fellow passengers. This was odd, as the offices were usually bustling with receptionists and agents, obviously busy saving the world. Today the world looked like it would have to save itself.

After several minutes, the lift came to a stop. The doors opened with a cheery pinging noise and Alex walked out. He found himself in a reception area with leather armchairs and settees, a polished desk and a polished secretary tapping into a desktop computer.

"Can I help you, sir?" She asked, looking up from her typing.

"I'm here to see Mr Haynes."

"Can I take a name, sir?"

"Of course. Rider. Alex Rider." As he spoke, Alex noticed the receptionist pause as she scribbled his name down. From behind her large glasses, she looked him up and down, pausing to notice the bulge of the gun holster in his coat.

"He's in a meeting at the moment. He'll be out in a minute." She indicated towards one of the armchairs and warily returned to her typing, glancing over occasionally.

Alex sat down awkwardly and picked up a copy of the Guardian from the magazine rack. He flicked through it, not really paying much attention to the stories, until one in particular caught his eye.

'_VETERAN KILLED IN SHOOTING_

_Yesterday evening, the body of a Mr Bruno Markenbury was found at his apartment in East London. Shot through the head at close range, Markenbury seemed to have put up a fight against his attacker and according to DCI Helen Carter, detective investigating the case, the incident is thought to be the result of an armed robbery. _

_Aged 71, Markenbury was a veteran of the Royal Marines and a memorial service will be held Tuesday this week. __Lieutenant-General Henry Marsh described Markenbury as a '..devoted patriot' and '...a man that achieved great things.'_

_Although police have neither confirmed or denied the suspects involved in the case, it is thought that nineteen year old Dylan Chambers may somehow be connected to the incident. Chambers, of 12 Greenwood Street, has already been involved in a number of police investigations concerning robbery, possession of illegal arms, drug use, car theft and-'_

"Rider?" Alex was jerked away from the article as a voice cut through the silent atmosphere. Haynes had arrived from around the corner, flanked on either side by a group of suit-clad men, all carrying briefcases or laptops. "What are you doing here?" Haynes did not seem particularly happy about the arrival of Alex.

"I need to speak with you..." Alex glanced at the posse of suited men. "...alone."

"I'm busy, Rider." Haynes pushed past him towards the office at the far end of the reception room. "You know that."

"It's about Bruno Markenbury." Haynes looked at him.

"We've already had that conversation."

"...and Dylan Chambers." Haynes froze.

"I see." He glanced at his executive-looking companions. "Excuse me, gentlemen." He led Alex towards the office and shut the door behind them.

The office had changed since Alan Blunt's time. The walls separating the reception area from the office were now made of frosted glass and Alex could still make out the misshapen forms of several awkward looking, suit-clad men hovering in between the armchairs.

"How did you find out about Chambers?" Haynes asked as soon as the door was shut.

"It's all over the newspapers." Alex frowned. "You really need to keep a tap on privacy, Haynes."

"Hell." Haynes moved over to the window. "No matter. It's not really that important."

"Who is he?"

"Chambers?" Haynes turned towards Alex. "He's a thug, a bully. His gang have been terrorising Eastern London for the past few years."

"And you think he's Bruno's killer?" Alex asked sceptically. Haynes looked at him from over the top of the desk.

"Sometimes..." He began. "It isn't who...but what. Chambers is bad. A bad person killed Bruno."

"Who killed Bruno?"

"I'm not going to tell you, Alex." Haynes frowned. "Like I said, we don't want you embarrassing us." He moved around the desk and stood closer to Alex. "Chambers is bad. Bad people need to be got rid of."

"He's nineteen."

"And?" Haynes raised an eyebrow. "Do you really think age should come into character assessment?"

"This isn't a question of character assessment. This is a question of guilt." Alex frowned at Haynes. "Did Chambers kill Bruno?"

Haynes stared at the shelving, his eyes glazed over. Finally, he spoke, his words laboured and carefully applied.

"Chambers is responsible for making lives hell." He looked up, staring Alex in the eye. "Name a criminal activity and Chambers has either done it himself or knows someone who has. Chambers goes down for this, we can reduce gang violence by at least half."

"That's irrelevant. What count is that we get someone who's guilty, not someone who just happened to be doing a bad thing around the same time."

"You see, Rider." Haynes smiled, grimly. "This is why I am head of MI6 and you are not." He paused, seemingly unsure whether he had overstepped the line. Eventually, after a few moments of angry silence, he continued. "I see opportunity where you see failure. We can stop a bad person from doing bad things. Surely that is a good policy."

"You're wrong." Time seemed to stop still as the two men faced each other in the quiet, dimly lit office. A clock, ticking warily in the corner of the room was the only thing that anchored them to the present, fists clenched at their sides, mouths drawn in a grim, sharp line.

"Either way," Haynes said, finally. "There is nothing you can do." Alex took a step towards the door, away from Haynes.

"We'll see about that." He turned on his heel, the door slamming shut behind him.


	5. Innocent Until Proven Guilty

**I'm sorry it took so long (yet again) to complete this chapter. Not only was schoolwork really bogging me down, but I found this chapter really hard to write, due to the fact I had to get across a certain character and wasn't totally sure how to do it. I'm not sure about this chapter myself, and so feedback with suggestions on improvements, or just simple reviews are greatly appreciated. Thanks for bearing with me for so long and I hope you enjoy the latest instalment of 'Dead Men Make Bad Allies'.**

**Chapter Five – Innocent Until Proven Guilty**

Twelve Greenwood Street was a large, white house with a lush green garden and overhanging front porch. Gables overlooked the sweeping driveway and a new BMW gleamed in the parking spot.

It was not what Alex had expected.

From both the newspaper article now folded in the breast pocket of his coat and Haynes' less than gleaming evaluation, Alex had somehow come to the conclusion that Chambers' place of residence would be situated in a poor, run-down community. Instead, confronted with the polished front of the house in the middle of a suburban estate, Alex found himself scolding himself for stereotyping Chambers into a certain category. Thugs could come from all walks of life, as Alex should have learned by now.

Approaching the house wouldn't be a good idea. After the little office confrontation, Haynes was bound to expect a move like that and would probably already have men watching the house. Indecision played about nervously in Alex's mind. He was used to tricky, split second decisions, but they had always been made on foreign turf. Operating in London was, literally, a little too close to home.

He'd already nearly been killed once. Somebody wanted him dead, and he didn't know who yet. That was enough of an excuse to remain cautious. There was something that didn't quite add up. Whoever wanted him dead had lured him out of his house and into familiar territory. One possible explanation for this was that they didn't know where he lived, but then, how would they have known where to send the postcard? Alex's thoughts were interrupted when a police car pulled up at the side of the road.

Haynes was quick, Alex had to admit it. He'd guessed at Alex's next move and had acted accordingly. Unfortunately, he'd been right. Alex had to act now, or else he may never get a chance to talk to Chambers. Throwing caution to the wind, he crossed the road.

*

Blue and red flashing lights are never normally a good sign. When they appeared through the frosted glass of the front door, Dylan Chambers knew he was in the shit. Without supplying his mother with an explanation, he dived up from the barstool he'd been sitting on and ran to his room, grabbing his backpack and car keys from the hall floor on the way up. His mother's confused shouts were blanked out of his head as his mid raced, wondering which of his latest 'schemes' the police were here for.

Had that little snitch Callum Briggs ratted on him about the cigarettes he'd stolen from the local supermarket when they were supposed to be at college? Was it the less than orthodox way he'd negotiated with Ross Shernsea over the cash they'd stolen from Terry Fowler? Possible explanations flooded his mind, all jostling for pride of place. The doorbell rang. Shit. He had no idea why the police had arrived, but they had and he had to deal with it. Now.

He opened to the door to his room. And nearly screamed.

A man was sitting on his bed, among the crumpled underpants and less than savoury magazines that littered the duvet. He was an old man, in a black coat and he looked up as Dylan entered the room with polite interest.

"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, once he had regained the power of speech. The man looked him up and down.

"Your ticket out of here." The man replied, glancing at the rucksack in Dylan's hand. "Pack." He stood up and thrust a few pairs of jeans and t-shirts at him. Dylan hastily stuffed them into his bag.

"Hurry up." The man opened the window and climbed out onto the gabled roof of the garage.

"You. Want. Me. To. Climb. Down..." Dylan froze, still in his bedroom. The man turned round.

"Well it's this or _them_..." He jerked his head towards the door, where frantic footsteps were now bounding up the stairs. Dylan hastily climbed out of the window, sliding around on the sludgy tiles.

The man grabbed the back of his hoodie, stabilising him. He shifted over to the edge of the roof, where directly underneath a Citroën C3 Pluriel and a dirty Ford Fiesta were parked. He placed one foot on the roof of the Citroën and was just about to transfer his weight when he caught the vicious gesturing coming from Dylan.

"No." Dylan hissed. "My Mum will kill me..." The man rolled his eyes and grabbed his hoodie again, throwing his forcibly down before him onto the car.

Dylan swore and contact was made. His back ached and he rolled off sideways onto the concrete. He lay there groaning for a few seconds, until he discovered that the man had joined him on the tarmac, although with a little more grace than Dylan had demonstrated.

"Have you got a car?" The man hissed. Dylan nodded and handed him the car keys. They were for the Fiesta and the man grabbed Dylan by the collar again and tossed him into the passenger side. He then climbed into the car himself, starting the engine with a fierce growl.

The noise must have alerted the people inside the house as several uniformed men started pouring out of the front door. The Fiesta rocketed out of the driveway and Dylan clutched his backpack in terror.

Shouts emitted from the men and, with a twinge of his stomach, he saw his mother among the crowd with her head in her hands. This wasn't the first time he'd let her down; she'd be used to it.

The car completed its turn and sped through the quiet, suburban estate, negotiating corners riskily. Sirens whistled in the background and Dylan knew they were for him.

"Who are you?" He asked the man, who was now concentrating on the road.

"Alex Rider, kid..." He replied, frowning as he executed a particularly tricky manoeuvre. "...and I just saved your life..."


	6. Supermarket Sweep

Unfortunately, my laptop has decided to completely wreck Microsoft Word, which is why I'm having to write this chapter on Notepad. As you may have realised, I can't figure out how to make text bold, which is why this author's note and chapter heading all blend in. My keyboard has also decided it doesn't like the letter 'u', so I have to press down hrader when I'm typing. I am desperately proof-checking and reading athough inevitabley, there will be bits I'll miss. For this, I'm apologise in advance and hope that the next chapter will be better. I hope you enjoy this one.

Chapter Six - Supermarket Sweep

The wheel of the beaten up ford fiesta hammered from left to right, as Alex swung off it, negotiating the steep corners of the estate. Sirens wailed from somewhere behind them and blue lights illuminated the houses, giving them a cool, eerie feel. "Where the hell are we going?" Dylan yelled over the din, cowering from behind his backpack. "You'll see..." Alex swung right again and Dylan shut up as his stomach decided to leap about inside him. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, praying to God it wasn't the last he'd ever take.

Finally, they broke out onto a main road and, without stopping to check the way was clear, Alex drove the car right out into the lane of traffic. Dylan winced as blaring horns danced in their wake. The police cars were now some cars behind them, hindered by their respect for other human lives. Alex thundered his way down the busy road, overtaking whenever humanly possible. Dylan found himself slamming into the car door on more than one occasion and he soon shut his eyes again, trying to pretend none of it was actually happening.

They were now in a more built up area of the town, houses merged with shops to create a commercial street and a supermarket dominated the side of the road on the right. The road was busier here, as late night shoppers blocked the junction with their cars, all desperately trying to get in at once.

Suddenly, more police cars poured out from a junction ahead; one of the policemen must have radioed ahead. Dylan turned to see what Alex's reaction would be and was met with a cool mask of indifference. Alex didn't really seem to be that bothered.

What he did next took Dylan completely by suprise. Instead of reversing, and speeding away to a clearer area of town where escape would be more plausible, Alex egged the little car forward and wedged himself into the supermarket queue, between a Renault Megane and a BMW estate. A Land Rover quickly filled in from behind, cacooning the Fiesta in from all sides. "What're you doing?" Dylan hissed. "You've blocked us in."  
"Not blocked us in..." Alex answered, slowly. "Blocked them out."

Slowly, the little stream of traffic edged forward into the carpark. Sirens blared out and blue lights appeared from all sides and police cars joined the hubub. "Not for long..." Muttered Dylan, frowning at the new arrivals. "Wait..." Alex egged the car forward with the queue and pulled into the carpark. They had about ten seconds before the police cars themselves joined them. Alex had to act fast.

"What now?" Dylan asked, trying his best not to sound absolutely terrified. "Watch and learn, kid." Alex swung through the car park, heading for the loading bays. Large lorries with the supermarket logo emblazoned on the side were parked neatly in rows as drivers loaded up, ready for leaving. Slowly, they began to pull out.

Alex pulled into the hanger-like space inside the loading bay and stalled the engine. "What the-" Dylan protested, althought the hand clamped onto his hoodie silenced him. Alex dragged him out from behind him and over to one of the lorry drivers.

Dylan hadn't noticed the bulge of the automatic pistol in Alex's jacket, but as soon as he drew it and levelled it at the driver's head, Dylan knew exactly what he was dealing with. This bloke had a gun, therefore he was dangerous.

He didn't have time to develop this theory before Alex gestured towards a crate of produce with the gun. "Move." He ordered the driver. The driver moved, in a flurry of panic and haste. Alex grabbed Dylan's hoodie again and propelled him towards the lorry. The keys were in the ignition. Thank God.

The cab of the lorry was untidy. Sweet wrappers littered the floor and a nodding dog with an unfortunate neck affliction guarded the dashboard, accompained by a few moth-eated baseball caps and a set of blue overalls. Dylan found that the passenger's seatbelt was in dire need of repair as half of it was constructed ot of masking tape.

Alex clambered in on the other side, just as a police car pulled in from the right. The lorry's engine roared to life and Alex swerved it out of the loading bay. Shouts and sirens followed them out into the car park. The lorry joined the stream of identical lorries slowly making their way out of the loading bay exit and back onto a back, industrial road. "They'll find us..." Dylan breathed. "We're right in their way..." Alex ignored him. Dylan stared out of the windsreen, panic building in his chest.

The lorries all filed out neatly, sporting their slogans cheerfully, oblivious to the fact that one of their number was an imposter. Sirens still blared angrily in the background and occasionally Dylan caught the angry glare of a blue light in the wingmirror. This said, the poilce seemed a lot further behind than before, causing the weight on Dylan's heart to reduce a little. "Don't relax yet." Alex said. "They'll have radioed ahead; there's more on the way." The weight was back again.

"Why don't they just stop the stream of traffic?" Dylan asked. "They can't. If they do, the supermarket'll sue them for delaying deliveries." Dylan raised his eyebrows. "I know. Mad. But sometimes madness can be in your favour."

At the next junction, the road widened into three lanes and the lorries divided up between them, heading to their separte destinations. Alex joined the right hand lane, checking in his rear mirror for the reaction of the police cars. As anticipated, they spilt up between the lanes, also dividing their number by three. "Well done, boys..." Alex murmured, tapping his hand on the dashboard.

Once again, Dylan found himself questioning his sanity. He didn't know this man. The man he didn't know had a gun. The man he didn't know that had a gun was sitting right next to him in the cab of a lorry. What the hell was he playing at? But then, what other choice did he have. If he hadn't left with this 'Alex Rider' (if that was even his real name) what would have happened then? He would have been arrested. That would have been bad. Besides, after all the stuff that had been happening lately, he'd kind of been asking for something like this to happen. Shoplifting has a price, after all. But then, what did Rider have to gain from helping him? Not a great deal it seemed. Why bother?

Alex swung right, driving all comprehensible thoughts out of Dylan's brain. They had left the main road and were now meandering down a small, desterted side street. He swerved around the corners at breakneck speed, with Dylan hanging on for dear life. They pulled into a layby at the side of the road. "What now?" Dylan asked, as Alex jumped down from the cab. "Turn your jacket inside out." Dylan glanced down at his hoodie and pulled it off. It had a fleecy lining and pulled it back on the right way round, he couldn't help feeling a bit stupid, especially as the hems were sticking out. He grabbed one of the baseball caps lying on the dashboard and added that to his ensemble. He then climbed down from the cab and joined Alex on the tarmac.

Alex had pulled the overalls on over the top of his coat and was holding a cigarette. "Go and sit on that bench." He hissed, gesturing over to a bench underneath a tree. Dylan obeyed and hurried over to the bench, where he sprawled and reached inside his hoodie for a pack of gum. He then realised that the pockets were on the inside and felt a bit of a twit.

Blue lights suddenly hurtled around the corner, accompanied by the screech of a siren. The poilce car pulled over and a policeman got out. Dylan stayed aprawled on the bench and watched Alex talk to the officer while he stayed in the shadows of the tree. There seemed to be a lot of shrugging coming from Alex and apologetic handshaking from the policeman. The officer turned to go, before catching Dylans eye. Slowly and deliberately, he started to make his way over.

Oh God. Oh God. This was it. "Excuse me, young man?" The policeman had stopped a few feet away. Dylan's heart beat furiously in his chest. "Yes...sir?" His voice trembled slightly. "Are you alright?" "Erm...yes...sir..."  
"Have you been drinking?" "Erm....no...sir..." The policeman looked at him oddly. "I see...." He said, frowning. "It's just, you're jumper's on inside out." Dylan glanced down. "Oh...er...right...thanks...." The policeman frowned again before turning back to his squad car.

Dylan wiped a clammy hand past his sweaty brow and glanced back to the lorry. Alex's shoulder's were shaking. Dylan realised what was going on: the bastard was laughing. 


	7. Four in the Morning

**A/N – It has been absolutely ages since I've updated and I'm really sorry. **

**GCSEs are weighing down and I'm taking a load of them in the next few weeks; my head may implode with the pressure. **

**Nevertheless, I have managed to get Word back, so now everything should be ok. In this chapter, we meet a new character. I went through several stages of trying to work out who they were and there were two alternatives to the character introduced here. I hope you like them: feedback would be fantastic. Reviews are greatly appreciated as always and I hope you enjoy this chapter. **

**Chapter Seven – Four In the Morning**

Sophie Gelder had never been a particularly subtle woman and now, at fifty seven, she was conscious of the fact that her shrewdness and blunt attitude towards everything and everyone, was probably the reason she had very few friends. However, this didn't particularly bother her. In fact, she was rather thankful for the distance that had been set between herself and the general public, as she didn't really like most of them anyway.

Life hadn't been easy for Sophie. At three years old, her mother had died, leaving her in the care of her work-obsessed father. Sophie learned from an early age that if you want something to happen, you have to happen to it.

Sophie wanted to be a journalist, and now she happened to be one.

Of course, being a journalist isn't a job for the faint of heart. Sophie's job required a permanently shrewd attitude and an even more permanent thick skin: two things she happened to have in abundance.

Over the years in the profession, she'd exposed MPs as liars, businessmen as frauds and several well known TV presenters as womanisers, although this all meant nothing to her. The kind of story she wanted, what she looked out for, involved bigger, better things.

Her first 'real' story as she put it, was written roughly forty years ago, when she had posed for three days as a resident of a known terrorist safe house.

It was then that she had met Alex Rider.

Having been posted on the case, Rider worked together with Sophie to expose the truth about the safe house and had also discovered the plans of the next terror attack. Alex had done his job and Sophie had written the story. Simple.

Since then, Alex and Sophie had kept vaguely in touch, often asking for help on either a cover story or a journalistic story; both their existences seemed based on lies. Apart from these professional meetings, neither really associated themselves with the other.

And so maybe it was for this reason that Sophie Gelder felt a little shocked when Alex Rider arrived at her doorstep at roughly four o' clock in the morning gripping the arm of a teenage, thuggish looking young man.

"What in Christ's name are you doing?" She grumbled, rubbing her forehead.

"I'm sorry to disturb you..." Alex checked the dark street behind him before adding, "Do you mind if we come in?" Sophie raised her eyebrows before stepping back into the hallway.

"Sure," She muttered. "Why not? Walk all over me. You've done it before..." She moved into the lounge. "Shut the door." She called back and Alex ushered Dylan in before shutting the door firmly behind them. Alex ushered Dylan through the open doorway, into the sitting room, where Sophie was waiting for them expectantly, hands on hips.

The room was small and slightly dated, flowery furniture disguising the yellowing wallpaper and a wilting vase of lilies in the far corner. Sophie surveyed the two men through squinted eyes.

"Sit." She said, motioning towards the settee. Alex obeyed. Dylan couldn't help finding this a little odd. After all, not seven hours earlier, he had witnessed this man threaten someone with a gun. Now he was obeying this greying, flimsy looking woman in a pink, fluffy dressing gown. Nevertheless, there was something slightly scary about this woman with the pointy, shrewd features. The way her small, grey eyes slid over him, obviously assessing his appearance, made him feel uncomfortable and after remaining standing for a second longer, Dylan sat down on the settee next to Alex.

Sophie folded her arms.

"What. The. Hell." She said, each word punching through the deathly silence. It wasn't spoken like a question, more like a statement and Dylan found himself looking at Alex, expectantly; he wanted an explanation too.

He didn't know anything about this man. At all. Whatsoever. All he knew was his name: Alex Rider. Even that could be fake.

Dylan and Alex had spent the last few hours sitting on a bench outside a seedy looking pub. It had been boring, but necessary, according to Alex anyway. They wanted to make sure they weren't being followed. Exactly what they would have done if it turned out they had been followed remained a mystery to Dylan, but he suspected that the answer was fastened up in the holster underneath Alex's overcoat.

During these few hours, Dylan had tried to wheedle out some sort of explanation from his strange saviour, although hadn't got very far. Alex seemed to be one of the 'strong and silent' types and Dylan had got nowhere.

Alex was old. Very old. Possibly even eighty and yet he was unbelievably agile. Dylan reckoned this must be due to some sort of military career, like the Marines or the S.A.S. He had actually asked Alex about this but had got no answer. This strange, middle aged woman might just be his ticket to the truth.

Alex's brown eyes met Sophie's grey ones.

"Ever heard of a man called Bruno Markenbury?" He asked her. Dylan felt slightly miffed about the way he was addressing the woman and not him, even though he had more to do with whatever was going on than she did. Sophie shook her head.

"No." She said. "Who is he?" Alex's eyes flickered over to Dylan.

"A colleague." He said, fixing his eyes back on Sophie's. She raised her eyebrows.

"I see..." She said slowly.

"I don't." Dylan said, tired of being quite for so long. He stared at Alex, frowning. "You've just kidnapped me, driven me through London and taken me to the house of...this _woman_." He jerked his head over to where Sophie was standing. "I think I deserve an explanation."

Alex raised his eyebrows.

"Oh do you?" He asked, his tone icy and unforgiving. "Well here's your explanation..." With that, he socked Dylan in the jaw, knocking him out.

Dylan fell to the floor with a thud.

"Jesus Christ, Alex." Sophie whispered, staring at the unconscious body of the young man, now crumpled on the floral carpet. "Was that entirely necessary?"

"Yes." Alex said, putting his leather glove back on. "He can't know what's going on."

"Why not?"

"I don't trust him yet." They stared at each other for a few seconds.

"Who the hell is he?"

"His name..." Alex began. "Is Dylan Chambers. He's a thug. Bruno Markenbury was found dead a couple of nights ago. Haynes is trying to frame him."

"Who killed Markenbury, then?" Sophie asked.

"I don't know for sure, yet." Alex said. "Although I'm betting on Haynes."

"Haynes?" Sophie exclaimed. "Why on Earth would Haynes kill his own man?"

"Money, power..." Alex trailed off. "Before he died, Markenbury told me about a deal. An important one. I think that he somehow got mixed into it and Haynes though that the goods were more important than a man's life." Sophie was silent for a minute.

"That's not it, is it?" She said after a while. "There's something else you're not telling me..."

Alex glared at her.

"I was tracked down." He said, after a moment. "Someone tried to kill me."

"Oh." Sophie raised her eyebrows. "Do you know who?"

"No." Alex looked down at Dylan's crumpled form. "I need to ask a favour."

"Oh god."

"Will you let him stay here?" Sophie groaned.

"Why me?" She moaned.

"Because I trust you and you have your wits about you." Alex stared at her and Sophie stared back, unfazed. "Look Sophie, people are going to come looking for him. He's not going to last two minutes on his own. He needs someone to look out for him, you're the only person I know that'll do the job properly."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere, my friend." She smirked before studying his soberly. "You're really serious about this aren't you?"

"I am." Sophie frowned.

"Alright..." She said, after a moment's pause. "I'll look after your Mr Chambers, although I expect to be able to cover the story when it's over."

"Deal."

They shook hands, both fully aware it would not be that simple.


	8. A Deal

**Chapter Eight – A Deal**

Dylan awoke to the sound of someone drilling through a wall, only to discover that the sound was coming from the inside of his own head and that he had a killer headache.

He was lying on a floral settee and was covered with a thin, yellow blanket that smelled of cat food. He blinked. Alex had knocked him out. Why? Surely that was against the law or something. Hitting kids that weren't your own wasn't allowed and although nineteen, Dylan was still pretty young. He could probably sue.

The pain reached a climax and he groaned, kneading his forehead. That had been a good punch. Dylan would know; he'd given out a few himself. Beating people up was one of his many talents and he flaunted it with delight, often picking on smaller, more vulnerable people than himself to humiliate. He was a bully, he accepted that. He beat people up because it made him feel good, like he was better than them, reassurance. Now he wasn't reassured. At all.

He pulled himself up from the settee and slowly stumbled across the room, towards the mantelpiece. So he could walk; that was a good sign. The door opened and the woman from the night before was standing in the doorway; pink dressing gown replaced with a pair of jeans and a green shirt.

"Oh." She said, folding her arms. "You're awake." Dylan nodded.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"I've got cereal in the kitchen."

"I don't like cereal."

"Well there's nothing else." They stared at each other for a moment. "Fine." Sophie said, turning towards the door. "Starve then. Alex'll be round later. He'll be annoyed at me because, for some reason, he wants you alive." She left, shutting the door behind her.

Dylan stared after her. No one had ever spoken to him the way that woman just had. He didn't even know who she was. He slowly sank down onto the settee. He wished he'd taken up her offer of breakfast; his stomach felt sore and empty. Why was he here anyway? Nothing had happened, besides the usual anyway, and the police had never bothered him before.

Alex seemed to be the key to this whole thing. He was one step ahead. Somehow, he knew what was going on and he'd have to get it out of him at some point. He couldn't just keep him here; it was hardly fair.

He'd get out of here as soon as possible, find his mum and sue Alex for maltreatment. Yes, that was a good plan. His head had started to ache again and he slumped sideways again, slowly drifting into unconsciousness.

*

He hadn't been back to the bank for eight years, yet here he was making two trips in the space of forty-eight hours. This time however, he didn't stop at the reception desk. Smashing the door back against the wall, Alex stormed into Haynes' office, the receptionist clucking at his heels.

"But sir...you can't just go in...you have to make an appointment..." Alex ignored her.

Haynes had been sitting at his desk, but had jumped out of his seat upon Alex's arrival. He frowned.

"Rider." He nodded to the receptionist and she left the room, shutting the door behind her.

"What in God's name were you thinking, Rider?" Haynes asked.

"I could ask the same of you." Alex stared at Haynes, scrutinizing his face. He looked tired; he hadn't been sleeping. Something was worrying him. "Arresting a teenager for the murder of an experienced agent? Not exactly a fool-proof, plan was it? What sort of teenager would be able to take down an agent?"

Haynes looked up. "You." He said, his voice clear and unfaltering.

Alex frowned. "Your point?"

"That you could have taken down an agent when you were a teenager."

"That's not the – "

"That I knew exactly what I was thinking!" Haynes snapped. He stepped back, looking Alex up and down and smirked. "I most certainly do not have to justify my actions to you."

"Now look here – "

"You left the organisation eight years ago, Rider!" Haynes yelled, cutting off whatever Alex was going to say. "You made it perfectly clear you wanted nothing to do with us anymore and that was fine!" Haynes paused, a few splotches of spittle clinging onto his trembling lips. "But now you want to get involved! You're not the boss, Rider! You're not an agent! You're not Jones!"

Alex stared at the man in front of him, frowning.

"I know I am not Tulip Jones." He began, quietly. "I know I am not the Head of MI6. That is not the point. The point is that we have a man dead, shot through the head." Alex shook his head slowly. "You know who killed him Haynes. I know you do. Condemning Chambers isn't going to make all of this go away."

Haynes stared at Rider, breathing deeply.

"What..." He began, finally. "...do you propose?"

"That you tell me everything, starting from who tried to kill me that night at the bridge. Then, I help you."

Haynes frowned.

"I'm not sure that's –"

"That's my condition, Haynes and I'll know if you're lying. Fifty-eight years in the business, you know."

Haynes sighed and sat down behind his desk.

"Alright." He said, pouring himself a glass of gin from a crystal bottle on his desk. "I'll tell you what you want to know, but only if you help us."

Alex nodded.

"I'll do what I can."

Haynes studied him for a moment.

"Have you heard of a man named Alan Blunt?"

**A/N – On my profile, I've started a poll, the object of which is to work out which stories to focus on finishing as I've got so many on the go at the moment. Any help on this issue would be great. I hope you liked this chapter. It's a bit short but there should be more to come soon. I would greatly appreciate any feedback. Thanks - Ashabagawa**


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